


Up In Smoke

by fire_and_ice



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Please Don't Kill Me, im sorry, trigger warning: suicide and cutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fire_and_ice/pseuds/fire_and_ice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“In case you need me again,” he says before biting Grantaire's lip in an almost painful way. (you cringe when hearing those words, remembering when you let them out too early)<br/>“Ya for sure,” the artist says, fingers running over the crinkled piece of paper before pulling it out and placing it on the old night stand, already covered in paper and phone numbers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up In Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> Everything in (brackets) is Grantaire's inner thoughts so yeah  
> again TRIGGER WARING SUICIDE AND CUTTING IS MENTIONED  
> Beta'd by the lovely http://stanas-hair.tumblr.com/  
> but no one is perfect so if you find any errors or anything that doesn't make sense please let me know  
> thank you :*
> 
> For Savannah who was my motivation behind this aka she listened to me whine and told me to shut up and write

Grantaire let the yellowing sheets pool around his waist as he reached for a cigarette.  
He leans back against the cracked headboard and lights his second to last one from the torn and water stained pack. He isn't surprised when the cigarette doesn't light, the stick still soggy from when he got caught out in the rain last night.  
He throws the pack and the wet cigarette against the paint splattered wall and runs his hands through his knotted curls. He lowers his forehead to his bent knees and lets a breath out.  
The body next to him stirs, it's blonde curls plastered to a pale forehead.  
Grantaire looks at the boy lying next to him and watches as he open his pale, green (not blue, never blue) eyes and give the artist a crooked smile.  
“Morning.”  
“Morning,” Grantaire nods, forehead still resting on his knees.  
The boy with the not blue eyes presses an open mouthed kiss to the outside of Grantaire's knee. Grantaire lifts his heavy head and gives the boy a tight lipped smile, in response.  
“Last night was fun,” the blonde says (wrong voice, wrong voice. you want to scream at him)  
“Ya,” he replies half halfheartedly. He was about to give some lame excuse to get the naked man out of his bed, when the slam of the front door made him pause.  
He looks down at the man and says, “That's probably my roommate, you should go. He doesn't really like me bringing people back here,” with a shrug.  
“Oh ok. That's cool,” the curly haired blonde says. He got up from the bed and swayed his hips, trying to entice Grantaire into another round, no doubt.  
Grantaire ignores the blonde (with the wrong colored curls) and pulls on his boxers and a t-shirt he knows for a fact isn't his. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes as the smell of a man, with blue eyes and the right colored curls, engulfs him. He pulls on the t-shirt, it's a little big around the shoulders and the waist but he curls into it.  
When the other boy finishes getting dressed he walks over to Grantaire and stuffs a piece of paper in between the elastic of his boxers and the pale, inked skin of his hip.  
“In case you need me again,” he says before biting Grantaire's lip in an almost painful way. (you cringe when hearing those words, remembering when you let them out too early)  
“Ya for sure,” the artist says, fingers running over the crinkled piece of paper before pulling it out and placing it on the old night stand, already covered in paper and phone numbers.  
Grantaire starts for the door with the broad shouldered man (pale skin lacking a mole on the right shoulder blade) in tow.  
The artist can hear Jehan's bell like laugh from the kitchen and picks up one of his many flasks that was resting on the floor outside his door. He takes a sip before continuing down the hallway, towards the front door.  
“Morning 'taire,” he hears from the kitchen but chooses to ignore it, in favor of opening the door with a barely functioning lock.  
The man leans down to give Grantaire a kiss that he leans up into because its the last human touch he will allow himself. Grantaire breaks the kiss, with closed eyes (he tastes like beer and smoke for a reason you remind yourself).  
“Bye,” the blonde breaths into his mouth before leaving.  
Grantaire shuts the front door and bows his head against it, wishing for a cigarette (or a mouth with a different taste).  
After a few minutes he straightens his back and walks to the kitchen, hands tightening around the flask, trying not to let his eyes water.  
Jehan is leaning against the counter, hands fiddling with an almost wilted flower.  
Grantaire lifts his head to meet Jehan's glassy eyes.  
“When are you going to stop doing this to yourself 'taire,” he says quietly.  
Grantaire just shrugs and opens the cupboard to grab a full bottle of vodka. Jehan's delicate hand wraps around his wrist.  
“Please 'taire,” he whispers again, fingers moving to lightly trace over the new scars on his wrist.  
“He misses you,” he continues gently.  
“Has he said anything?” Grantaire croaks, letting his hope seep into his voice.  
“No, but I can tell 'taire. He needs you,” Jehan almost pleads as Grantaire shuts back into himself again.  
“I'm the last thing he needs, he said so himself,” Grantaire whispers, looking straight into the cupboard. He gently pries Jehan's fingers loose and grabs the fresh bottle, turning around to head back into his bedroom. He can hear Jehan say his name as he leaves.  
Grantaire shuts the door to his bedroom and looks around. He can still smell the sex. He looks at the rumpled sheets and can almost imagine it was Enjolras who messed them up. His already broken heart breaks a little more at the thought.  
He sits down at the edge of the bed and places the bottle at his feet. And allows himself to cry even though he should have no more tears to cry with.  
He wraps his arms around himself and lies back, pressing the t-shirt to his nose.  
Grantaire can hear Jehan on the phone with someone, he can't make out the words but he can hear the tears in his friend's voice.  
He close his eyes and pictures a pair of warm arms wrapped around his waist (long, with pale hairs dusting the pale skin). He closes out the world, the honking horns from outside and Jehan's voice getting louder as he bangs on the bedroom door.  
He reaches for the piece of shinny metal under the stained book (tears, blood or alcohol, you don't know anymore) filled with sketches of the boy he desperately wants to hold (but never will again). His finger tips brush against the cool metal, as Jehan's banging on the locked door becomes louder and his voice begins to fill with panic and more tears.  
Grantaire keeps his eyes closed as he brings the blade to one wrist, then the other, cutting diagonally.  
He opens his eyes one last time and almost smiles.  
(Your blood matches the color of his lips)


End file.
